Emma returned the next afternoon at exactly 3:00 p.m.
She had barely slept. All night she had replayed the way Father Michael’s c**k had stretched her open, the way his c*m had felt flooding her until it overflowed, the way he had whispered that God wanted her filled. She had come three times before dawn using only her fingers, whispering his name into the pillow like a prayer she was ashamed of, but still she woke up aching, empty, desperate for more.
The church was quiet, it was , mid-afternoon, no mass, no visitors. She walked past the confessional booth without stopping, heart pounding, and continued down the side corridor toward the sacristy door. It was unlocked.
She pushed it open.
Father Michael was already inside.
He stood by the vestment cabinet, in his black shirt and colla
